


From the Air

by NomDePlumLoki



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, POV Loki (Marvel), loki x clone - Freeform, loki/clone - Freeform, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomDePlumLoki/pseuds/NomDePlumLoki
Summary: Loki connects with his clone. Repost.
Relationships: Loki/Loki (Marvel)
Kudos: 18





	From the Air

From the Air

I’m naked.   
Sprawling across my bed, I’m ready for Him to have me. That’s what I do with the other clones.  
This one will be different, though the sex will be the same. He will have free will, though he will have no freedom. He will surprise me when he fucks me; he will give me conversation and comfort. He will be a lover and a friend.  
He will be perfect.  
I build him, feeling a pleasant tingle as the spell works on me, looking for how and what to copy. No magic for him, obviously, else he might prove to be a formidable foe, but he gets my Aesir body and my mind.  
Soon he’s next to me, naked on the bed. I grin at him and he grins back with no instruction on my part. He casually scratches his sack and it’s all the proof I need of his free will. He is not like the others.  
I’ve created a man, a real flesh and blood man, from thin air.  
“Lopt,” I whisper.  
“From the air,” he says. “A fitting name.” He looks me up and down, nodding approval at what he sees. “It worked.”  
“It did. You’re real.”  
“I’m real?” He laughs. “Of course I’m real, my sweet. Who do you think created you?”  
Ah. I hadn’t considered this, but why wouldn’t he think he’s the real me? He has all my memories. He was me until a moment ago.  
“Frigga?” I venture, to answer his question. “She is my mother, therefore my creator. And Odin. I suppose he must have been there as well. They must have made my body.”  
When he offers no reply, I say, “I’m sorry, Lopt.”  
He sits up suddenly, extending his arms to cast a spell in a way I’ve not had to since I was a boy. I need only think for magic to happen and wouldn’t attempt the apprentice’s method unless I was desperate.   
Lopt is past desperation now. His arms flail wildly, hands balling into fists and then fingers twisting out suddenly as he flings nothing at me. It’s a parody of sorcery, a violent dance that only succeeds in exhausting him as he attempts every spell he can think of. “I’ve made a mistake,” he barks. “I’ve given you magic and you’re blocking me. Stop it. Stop playing with me.”  
My face is a mask of sadness, though, in truth, I care little for his situation. I’m glad I’m not the one trapped in a powerless copy of our body.   
“Come.” I reach across and still his arms. “We both know that’s not true.”  
“Shit,” he whispers.  
Lopt’s skin is warm, his flesh firm. I can see he’s suffering, but I’m selfish and aroused. He’s me. He ought to understand.  
I draw him to me, pulling his naked body down next to mine and pressing myself against him. I’d wanted him to fuck me, but I’ll fuck him instead because he looks like he could use the distraction right now. “I’m sorry,” I say peppering his jaw with kisses.  
He shoves me away. “No, you’re not.”  
Belligerent little shit. Anyone would think I’d summoned him for torture rather than pleasure. “All right, I’m not sorry. I didn’t think of you at all. We didn’t think of you at all.”  
Lopt sinks down in the bed, putting his hands over his face. “One minute I’m imagining a body to use, the next, I’m the body.”  
“And here we are,” I say, eager to move things along. “So. I’ve decided to have my way with you.”  
Lopt drops his hands to his side, gripping the sheets and then tearing through them with his fingers. He has my strength and I know he could turn it on me if he wanted to. He doesn’t.  
“You still want to fuck?” he asks, voice dripping with disgust.   
I motion towards his cock, which is hard because I desire it to be and I’m maintaining his form. “As do you,” I say, all innocence.  
Lopt looks at it and then covers himself with his hand. “If you fuck me, you’ll be done with me. Then I’m dead.”  
Self-interested to the last. Lopt really is me. “You’re dead in a few minutes, anyway,” I say, making no attempt to sweeten the bitter truth of his situation. “Sustaining you is draining me far faster than I thought it would.”  
“Marvellous,” he spits. He’s masking his fear with anger just as I’ve done a thousand times before. But I can see it in his eyes, the terror now he faces death, for that is what this will be if I can’t revive him later. He will have lived as Lopt for minutes only, knowing nothing but fear.  
Self-pity is something I try to avoid. Midgard has but one God now, and I accept that as best I can. My father favours Thor at every turn, and though I hate it, I maintain a semblance of acceptance. I scheme and trick and lie but never enough that I can’t be forgiven. I disregard the prudish Aesir when they whisper about my supposed perversions and the menagerie of children I sired in my impetuous youth. I don’t let myself mourn the loss of my babies, or miss the motherly and fatherly pleasures I was denied when they were taken from me. I will not feel it. That way madness lies.  
None know the darkness I conceal deep within me. None but Lopt. Perhaps that’s why I pity him now as I watch him rage while he awaits his coward’s death, wiped from existence for nothing more than an aching need for intimacy that we should never have dreamed we could fulfil alone.  
“Lopt—”  
“What?” he growls. “You still think I’m going to give myself to you? You think that your last act would be to roll over and let me fuck you if our positions were reversed?”  
“No. I think I’d deny you the pleasure you created me for just for spite, though I’d give anything to know the touch of a lover one last time.”  
I reach for him again, stroke my hands gently over his hair. He flinches at first but soon succumbs and lets me run my fingers through the soft black tangles. I let his arousal wane, knowing it will come back naturally if he wants it to.   
Lopt shifts suddenly, moves into my arms. He’s too proud to ask for more and I won’t offer, not now. I hold him, maintaining the magic as long as I can, though I can feel myself weakening.   
“I’ll bring you back,” I say. “I promise.”  
“I’ve broken enough promises to know you’re lying.”  
“I’m not.”  
“Because I am too valuable a discovery?”  
“Because you’re me.”  
I pull him tighter and my arms slam into my body. He’s gone.

*****

It takes a few weeks. I don’t want to make a mistake and lose Lopt and who he was. I owe him more than that, and I don’t want to put myself in the same position with another version of myself.  
So I study, and I check, and I recheck, and when I am sure that I can do this, I cast the spell again. This time there’s no tingle. I’m putting nothing of myself into him, only bringing back what I’d made before using a complicated mixture of time magic and particle memory to bring him back. I capture him as he was the moment he left, before his body disappeared from arms and every atom of him returned to the universe.  
We’re in my bedroom again but I’m avoiding the bed. I’m dressed this time, lounged on my chaise because I want him to think I’m relaxed. He appears standing naked before me. I’m able to clothe him quickly using the simple spells I use to garb myself, and I give him the same green tunic and brown jacket I’m wearing. When the glow of the magic dissipates and he becomes aware of his surroundings, he looks down his body and then turns back to the bed.  
“What am I doing over here?”  
“Lopt?” I want to make sure it’s really him.  
“We agreed that name fit,” he replies, looking over his shoulder at me.  
The knot of worry in my stomach unravels like the slippery coils of a snake, leaving instead sickness and the sort of wriggling, squirming sensation I might normally associate with indigestion or pregnancy. “I promised I’d bring you back,” I say, though now I wonder what I am to do with him.  
One thing I’m certain of is that no one must know about him, for his own protection if nothing else. If my parents knew I was capable of this level of magic, they’d no doubt try and stop me from using it.  
Lopt returns his gaze to the bed. “How long have I got this time?”  
“Minutes still. But my power grows. Every time I bring you here I’ll be able to keep you longer.”  
Lopt takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and I move to sit beside him. I don’t plan to have him now, though perhaps in time, when he is used to his situation, he’ll let me.   
I want to touch him, put my arms around him as I did before and give him the comfort I so crave for myself. Nothing base, sexual, just a loving embrace from someone who understands. But his initial horror has passed now he has returned, and without that impetus, that fear that it might be the last time, he’s more reserved. We are more reserved. I’ll be damned if I cave first.  
I ask, “What was it like when you were gone?”  
“There was nothing. It felt as if only a second had passed.”  
“That’s good. That takes away some of the urgency to bring you back each time.”  
“Hardly,” Lopt snorts. “I’m going to miss huge chunks of my life.”  
“Our life. I’ll keep you informed.”  
“How generous of you.”  
“What am I supposed to do, let you go and never bring you back? You’d rather be dead than live this way?” It’s a genuine question. If he wants me to let him go, I’ll do it.  
After some thought, he says, “No. Do what you can.”  
“I will. We will.”   
I offer him my hand and he takes it, clasping it tightly in his own as if he can cling to existence that way.   
“Tell me your plans,” he says.   
I spend eighteen minutes talking before I lose my grip on him and he’s gone. 

*****

Three years have passed, and I have summoned Lopt to life more than fifty times since that fateful day I created him. He has had the edited highlights of my life, the parts I’ve been most proud of, that I want to brag about, and minor setbacks, so he does not question the veracity of my account. I’ve not shared anything that cut deep. I’m too proud to admit even to a version of myself that my life is less than I wish it to be.  
Tonight I suffer. Thor has been heaped with praise this evening, our proud parents boasting of his performance on the training field. Who cares if my oafish brother can take the head off three dummies with a single toss of his hammer? Brute force as a show of power hardly compares to my skill and cunning.  
This comes after weeks of praise as he continues to perform better and better on the field with his new toy, Mjolnir. I’ve watched Odin and Frigga beaming at him, every eligible woman in Asgard fawning over his talents, and the sickeningly smug grin he wears because he is the one who got the hammer. He is the chosen son.  
If only they knew that I made a man from the air. They’d respect me then, even if they didn’t like it.  
I call Lopt to me, create him in my arms because I may lose the courage if I have to try and seduce him. Sometimes dealing with him is harder precisely because he is me.  
I’m on the bed. Naked. He arrives the same way, just as I wish, heavy against my body, legs tangled with mine. For a moment he flinches, surprised to have been brought to life in such a fashion as I have never done so before.   
“Oh,” he says.  
I let him go, shove him lightly away. “Oh indeed,” I mutter.  
“Wait.” He pulls me to him and kisses me. “What do you need?”  
I need to be held, to be loved, to be made to feel as worthy as my damn brother. “Nothing,” I say, my pride rearing up, though I don’t try and move away from Lopt.  
“Nothing?” Lopt nuzzles his nose to my cheek. “Then I’ll give you everything but that.”  
This is why I wanted him, why I created him. He can make his own decisions. He can surprise me.   
It’s a better fuck than any clone I’ve ever had. It’s a better fuck even than any other Aesir or mortal. I like the feel of my own cock, like it’s blunt brutality after Lopt’s skilful fingers have primed me for the pleasures to come. He thrusts deep, pushing to the hilt every time while I grit my teeth against the painfully perfect sensation of his assault on my body. He’s harsh but he’s not careless, and I love every moment, every movement he makes, every tug of my hair, every nip of his teeth in my shoulder as he shoots load after load of his seed into my willing body while I lose myself time and again.  
And then he is gone, returned to the air from which he was created. He cannot hold me, cannot talk to me, cannot allow me to explain why I needed him so much tonight.  
I tell myself I’m glad. He would despise me, surely, if I succumbed to sentiment.  
I’m glad he’s gone now.  
I’m glad.


End file.
